


Lessons on Baker Street

by hotchoco195



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Drabble Sequence, Established Relationship, Implied Sexual Content, Introspection, Lists and Numbers, M/M, Minor Character Death, Passage of time, Sheriarty - Freeform, Untranslatable words, sort of like Sherlock's feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-29 01:36:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotchoco195/pseuds/hotchoco195
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some words and numbers to sum up Sherlock and Jim</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Definitions

 

_L’appel du vide – “The call of the void”, the instinctive urge to jump from high places._

He knows it’s upsetting John, this never-ending contest with Moriarty. Sherlock even concedes the doctor has a right to be upset; he was kidnapped by the man. But Sherlock can’t help himself. He’s spent his whole life looking for someone who could match him, and so far Mycroft’s the best (which is very sad for humanity in several different ways). Now he finally has a playmate – an equal. Someone who makes him think and always pushes him to do better, be quicker, more brilliant. If Sherlock could ever love something other than himself, it would be Moriarty’s brain.

Perhaps the danger helps. After all, Sherlock’s whole career is been based around using whatever small excitement he can find in solving crimes to break free of his perpetual boredom. He could have been a doctor curing diseases, or a scientist making new discoveries but he’d chosen to be a little of both and a detective to boot, and Moriarty plays nicely into that. Sherlock can feel himself being pulled into Jim’s vortex, wanting to sink all the way to the bottom and see every layer even if it kills him. He can see why John’s upset.

*****

_Mamihlapinatapai - a look shared by two people with each wishing that the other will initiate something that both desire but which neither one wants to start._

Sherlock’s getting out of a cab in front of Baker Street when he feels someone watching him. He pauses on the doorstep, turns. Jim’s standing leisurely at the corner of an alley down the street. Sherlock doesn’t even think twice.

He strides over as if he’s enjoying a Sunday stroll. Jim steps back into the shadows as he approaches, forcing him to move faster to keep the criminal in sight. It’s barely dawn and there are still some homeless napping in the dark brick corners.

“Morning, Sherlock.”

“I take it you’re not here to ask me for breakfast.”

“Maybe I am.”

He closes the gap between them and stares down into those playful black eyes. Sherlock’s breath hisses through his teeth as he uses his extra height to squeeze even further into Moriarty’s personal space. The criminal’s face is uncharacteristically guarded for a moment; the wool of his coat soft under Sherlock’s fingers as the detective reaches out and carefully, deliberately wraps a hand around his waist. The sound of London waking up around them only makes the silence of the alley more distinct, like this moment is untouchable.

Jim’s blank mask drops with a flicker into a smile that may or may not be genuine.

“No going back, Sherlock.”

“Are you ready?”

*****

_Xertz_ _– to gulp down quickly and greedily._

Sherlock Holmes is no blushing virgin. He understands desire’s biological function, its social uses and connotations, its symptoms and causes. He dallied once or twice in university, just to add his own data before deciding it was unnecessary and draining. So like sleep and food, sex had been added to the list of things Sherlock didn’t waste his time on.

This is different. This is desire so consuming Sherlock sees everything else as the waste. His fingers are eager, desperate as they draw Jim closer. They smash a lamp; they break three hotel chairs. Sherlock is not satisfied no matter how long they stay in bed. He wants _all_ of Moriarty, every thought and word and inch until Jim only exists within Sherlock. He wants him all to himself. Sherlock stops caring if he ever sees the sun again – he’d give it up for Jim.

*****

_Jayus – A joke so poorly told and so unfunny that one cannot help but laugh._

It takes a lot less time than Sherlock had expected for John to find out – and a lot more. They never meet at Baker Street after that first time, and Jim is the very master of secrecy. So it makes sense that something stupid trips them up.

Sherlock meets him at a flat by the river. It stinks, rubbing some of the gloss off the luxurious minimalistic decor and the million-dollar view. But it’s far from John’s stomping ground and discreet, out of the eyes of Mycroft. Sherlock falls on him the second the door opens and Jim reacts like a cat being drowned, lashing out wildly in a struggle to be on top.

Afterwards Sherlock goes down to the street for a smoke, because Jim is very particular about the smell. He’s leaning back against the building watching the sparse traffic, when a stocky figure with his hands in his pockets walks past and stops.

“Sherlock?”

“John?”

“Are you smoking?” the doctor frowns.

“Never mind that. What are you doing here?”

“I had a seminar at a clinic nearby. Thought I’d take a walk before I head home.”

“Why?” Sherlock wrinkles his nose.

“I don’t mind the smell so much,” John shrugs, “What are you doing here?”

Sherlock has no excuse ready. What would he say? What could he tell John that would explain his presence but not make him more curious?

He’s seconds away from saying he’s checking on something for a new client, even though he knows the smoking is already making John too suspicious to fall for that. But then it doesn’t matter anymore, because Jim comes out through the front door and stops. John goes for his gun but a tall muscular blond steps out of nowhere and rests his pistol against the back of the ex-soldier’s head.

“Thank you, Sebastian. You could have warned me we had company before I came down.” Jim scowls.

“Why are you here? Because of him again?” John demands.

Sherlock shrugs. “Yes.”

“Sorry to let the cat out of the bag and leave, my dear, but I have places to be.”

Jim steps closer to Sherlock and John twitches, but the cold metal against his scalp stops him actually lunging for Moriarty’s throat. Jim presses a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek and climbs into a black car parked a few steps away. The blonde gunman lowers his weapon but keeps it out as he slides into the front seat next to the driver. They pull away and Sherlock stubs out his forgotten cigarette, shoving his hands in his pockets as he turns and starts walking.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, we’re going to talk about this. What the bloody hell was that?”

“Does it matter?”

“It very much matters, Sherlock! That was the most dangerous man I have ever met and you were smoking outside...his flat, I guess?”

“One of them.”

“Well, why!”

“Can’t help myself, I guess.”

And it’s not funny but he laughs and laughs, doubles over at the unfortunate truth.

 Sherlock leaves the next day.

*****

_Pune-ti pofta-n cui - to forget about getting something._

Sherlock never had a chance of being normal. He never could have stayed in 221B with John, living exactly as they had. He couldn’t have found some nice person to settle down with and be ordinary, but sometimes when Jim’s asleep and Sherlock’s not tired he sits up and thinks about it. Perhaps some small part of him always knew the course of average people’s lives and felt like he might want that, might even someday be able to have it. But he needs to put that small part behind him because it was utterly, utterly wrong.

It’s Vietnam tonight, the air oppressively hot because Jim wanted to ‘go local’ and attempt to blend in by forgoing his usual air-conditioned hotel suite. They’re in a cramped little inn with walls so thin the noise of the street completely drowns out Jim’s snoring, but at least it’s clean and no one complains about Sherlock’s violin.

They’re supposed to be meeting some opium growers tomorrow but Sherlock probably won’t bother. Let Jim and Moran handle the boring negotiations and he’d just concentrate on smuggling the goods out. That was far more of a challenge and involved much less unpleasant conversation.

Sometimes he misses the idea of Mycroft, but then they have to leave yet another apartment in the middle of the night and he gets over it.

*****

_Ya’aburnee  – “You bury me,” a declaration of one’s hope that they’ll die before another person because of how difficult it would be to live without them._

In North Africa Sherlock realises he’s learned how to love, and that he’ll never see England again. They have an appointment with some separatists that actually sparks his interest enough to attend, and then the leader pulls a rifle and things get dramatic. Moran lays down cover while Sherlock and Jim race to the jeep but it’s not enough to stop the groan of Moriarty taking a shot to the arm.

“You stupid berk!” Sherlock cusses as Moran whips the car over the dunes, tossing the two men around in the back while he’s trying to put pressure on the wound.

“Aww Sherlock, didn’t know you cared.” Jim chuckles.

But he does, and that’s scarier than the injury. It’s a clean through-and-through, nothing major and will heal fine provided they can get it stitched up soon. But Sherlock realising the rage he feels at Jim for getting hurt is not just rage. For a second he thought perhaps it was _him_ dying.

Sherlock confiscates his laptop and phone and insists on handling everything until he’s not on so many painkillers. Jim coos and teases even worse but he is actually in too much pain to object. Sherlock takes to falling asleep in a chair so as not to accidentally press against his bad arm, and he knows he’s completely, totally, hopelessly committed to keeping Jim happy and safe as long as the smaller man will let him.

They arrange a very nasty explosion once Jim’s feeling better.


	2. Equations

_150 acres + 5 million pounds + 1 grouchy bodyguard = 1 secluded, off-grid tropical hideaway that is (quote) ‘Bloody India all over again.’_

Sebastian doesn’t seem to care that there were no tigers in the Caribbean. Apparently the heat and the rainforest give him flashbacks.

Moriarty likes to push himself. He wants to shake the Irish cold out of his bones, so he chooses a discreet little isle and sets about making it completely independent and work-friendly. He secretly loves that it gives Sherlock an excuse to walk around barely clothed, and the slight suntan the man’s picked up.

Sherlock lets Jim pick since he doesn’t care anyway. He doesn’t mind the tropics. The house is nice, an old villa that sprawls over the island complete with its own airstrip and pier. There’s room for all his equipment and a big bed and that’s all he needs.

Sebastian hates the place with its lack of gambling and women, but at least there’s a pool and a well-stocked liquor cabinet and no bloody tigers.

*****

_1 Sherlock + 1 pineapple = 1 government collapse in New Guinea_

Jim loves the way Sherlock’s taken to their work. Honestly, for the former detective it’s just looking at the problem from the other side and the deaths that result bother him no more than when he was examining the bodies. There are more variables in being a villain. Working with Scotland Yard he never had to worry about being the one who got caught.

It’s the first chance to really let his ideas run wild. Jim says they can go anywhere, do anything. He lets Sherlock pick which clients he wants to help with and handles all the business. Sherlock doesn’t care about the money, just the new problem each job presents.

Mycroft starts keeping a file of any incident Sherlock might have been involved with. It takes over a whole cabinet within six months.

*****

_2 bored geniuses + 1 typhoon + 6 shots of grappa each = 1 bar brawl that Moran classed as ‘absolutely fucktastic, boss.’_

It’s always something. In Bengal when Moriarty’s brilliant accomplices accidentally blow up the train tracks and ruin their getaway, the two men manage to burn down a back-alley casino. In Paris they get thrown out of three restaurants for insisting Jim’s new pet tarantula sit on the table. Sherlock is in more fights in a year than in the thirty-odd before, suffering through Jim’s giggles and Moran’s quiet mothering as the sniper tends his wounds.

Not that Sebastian doesn’t get into plenty of trouble himself. He’s incapable of turning down a dare and Jim knows it. Sherlock can’t count the number of times they’ve bailed him out now, and then one time in Dubai it’s a daring rescue from the firing squad only minutes before his execution. Sherlock likes causing trouble, no matter how small. At least he’s not bored.

*****

_1 blonde ex-army sniper + 1 tiger = 1 scar and 1 comparison Sherlock doesn’t like to dwell on_

The wound stretches across Sebastian’s chest. It’s old, mostly healed but with some bad puckering. No plastic surgeons in the jungle. The first time Sherlock sees it is when they’re sprawled over the lounge room of a Swiss chalet, Jim pouring for him from an exquisite bottle of red and he asks where they met.

“Oh I found Sebastian in Portugal, working for some lower-level crime boss. I made him a much better offer.”

“You did well.”

“Didn’t I? Tough, army-trained and handsome to boot. Sebastian, come show him your trophy.”

Moran lifts his shirt, face neutral. He seems unbothered by the interest, indifferent. The scar itself is fascinating from a medical perspective, the story behind it appealing for its place in Moran’s character. But mostly when Sherlock sees it he just thinks of John, and that’s not helpful.

The tiger skin is mounted on Moran’s wall like a warning.

*****

_1 Irishman + 1 Bach fan = 1 obsession slowly taking over a whole room of the house_

They each have their own space on the shelves lining the room. At first half of Sherlock’s library was books and the other half specimens, but slowly as they travel everything gets pushed out into another room. He’s got all the classics, the old European wonders, even a rare Stradivarius thought long destroyed. He’s got fiddles and violins and violas from every tribal culture and Asian opera and great musician’s collection, some stolen and some souvenirs but all gifts from Jim. His old favourite from Baker Street lies close at hand by the door, but Sherlock doesn’t feel sad when he plays it anymore.

One day Jim rolls in his grand piano and sits at it with a smile.

“I thought you could use some accompaniment.”

His fingers barely touch the keys but the melody is sweet and haunting, Moriarty’s rendition flawless.

“Classically trained?” Sherlock guesses.

“Nope, just a hobby.” Jim smiles.

*****

_(1 randy psychopath + 1 addict detective) – any self-control = 4 broken bones, 6 pulled muscles, 1 black eye, 5 broken beds, 17 hotel complaints and 589 orgasms (so far)_

If there’s one thing Sherlock learns it’s that Jim doesn’t like to wait. It doesn’t matter where they are: the car, a box at the opera, a restaurant, a plane, the side of the road. If Moriarty wants him there is no putting it off. Sherlock also learns he doesn’t mind that much.

It’s usually that way, demanding and bruising and urgent. But sometimes Jim actually cooks for Sherlock and romances him, and then it’s always sweet and agonisingly slow. Sherlock’s not sure which one hurts more during, but at least the tender times don’t leave marks for Sebastian to snicker about.

*****

_26 letters from Mycroft – 25 never sent = 1 birthday card_

Somehow it makes it to one of Jim’s contacts in Scotland, and from there to Moran and then the criminal himself. He ponders on it for a day or two before handing it over to the intended recipient.

Sherlock’s a little surprised. Mycroft always remembered his birthday; took pride in the fact that no secretary had to remind him. But it usually entailed a stiff, short dinner and little more. There were certainly never gifts.

The message is classic Mycroft. Short, unemotional, with one line at the end that hints of concern and an open invitation to come home. The present is a slim envelope of photos. John in a tux marrying a pretty blonde, Lestrade getting an award, Molly with a baby, even a nice candid shot of Mrs Hudson having tea. If they’re intended to make Sherlock miss his friends they fail but he’s glad to see everyone doing well. He locks both card and envelope in the bottom of his desk and doesn’t mention them to Jim again.

*****

_4 assassins + 2 car bombs + 1 half-arsed kidnapping = 1 ordinary year_

Sherlock’s right in danger’s way now. Jim presents him to their clients as a partner when he bothers to involve Sherlock at all, but there are whispers that the great Moriarty has a weakness. They tend to forget Sherlock is just as brilliant.

Some people get closer than others, like the sniper who grazed Sherlock’s ear or the bomber who got the right time, wrong restaurant. Those people always end up a neatly packaged pile of body parts courtesy of Colonel Moran, but every attack makes Jim wilder, more passionate. Sherlock can barely count the number of times Jim’s life has been threatened, but if anyone so much as looks at Sherlock wrong they suffer for it.

He doesn’t mind the risk. He understands the intent behind the attempts and they make sense from a business standpoint. He doesn’t get offended the way Jim does that someone might dare cross them. He shakes his head at their foolishness and bad planning and sits back to watch Moriarty handle it.

Of course, it’s a different story when they go after Jim.

*****

_350 000 miles + 3804 offences + 3 gunshot wounds of varying severity + 14.6 billion dollars + 156 satisfied clients (+ 38 dead ones) + 25 close calls with law enforcement = 15 years, 0 visits to England and 1 dead Holmes_

Sherlock goes home when his brother dies. It’s the first time he’s touched British soil since they left, but despite Jim’s protests he’s not concerned. Mycroft won’t trouble him anymore.

He’s fairly confident the elder Holmes will have done whatever it took to keep him from being connected with Moriarty or their crimes. Not necessarily from any brotherly love, but to keep the Holmes name out of the muck at least. London should be as safe for him as any other city but Moran’s with him anyway.

“I don’t understand why you’re going. You and Mycroft hated each other.”

“Not really.”

The funeral is full of dignitaries. Not the real ones, the important ones that Mycroft actually dealt with like the heads of various spy agencies and secret services – but there’s a sizable party from the palace and both Houses to see him off. Sherlock slips into the back of the church and keeps his head down.

John’s there with his wife. He looks much older, but happy. Sherlock’s not sure why he’d bother with Mycroft’s funeral either. Maybe he’s being polite; maybe he’s nostalgic for Sherlock. He doesn’t speak to him and they leave before the service finishes.

He’s not really there to wish his brother farewell. He’s reclaiming his city. He’s taking back the place it all began. He’s opening up a new previously off-limits arena for their games.

In a week he sends for Jim, and the week after that they’re taking tea and scones by the Thames like nothing ever happened.


End file.
